


Thank you, Anderson.

by petitetourneau (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, sherlock being nice to anderson for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/petitetourneau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So, the lovely little minisode the BBC gave us gave me a little idea for how Anderson and Sherlock react to each other upon Sherlock's return.</p><p>I'm a little rusty, and this is maybe alittle ooc, so bare with me.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Thank you, Anderson.

**Author's Note:**

> So, the lovely little minisode the BBC gave us gave me a little idea for how Anderson and Sherlock react to each other upon Sherlock's return.
> 
> I'm a little rusty, and this is maybe alittle ooc, so bare with me.

When a person leaves, their memory stays on in the things they once touched. Within the mirrors they would glance at before charging out the front door to persue a conquest, or upon the door handles that would twist and creak as they tiptoed into a room. You fight for these memories, despite how they may have made you feel. Now all they give you is warmth, and comfort, and perhaps the twinge of hope that, maybe one day, they'll come back to us. But time is memory's biggest nemesis, and with time those prints disintergrate from the minds of those who would hold them so dear. People move on, and with the moving on of the soul, the person moves on too.

In the three years that Sherlock had been gone, only one individual had kept the fire burning. And eventhough it seemed inevitable, he never gave in, and he never gave up. His companions had resigned to the silent acceptance of the petty incident, but not him. He knew they were wrong to believe the mound of dirt and debris lying in the cemetary was anything more than a ploy. A silly little trick to trigger the grand recrudescence of the mighty Sherock Holmes. But alas, he was alone in his optimised anticipation. Not only was he resented in his attempts of investigation, and the close proximity of his trail, but also in his appearance, for it had withered and vastly outgrown him. Where there once stood a proud man of prim and close-knit grooming, a huddled and almost primitive being now slouched in its shadow. And one by one people stopped nodding their heads, stopped listening, stopped resting their timid hands upon his flinching shoulder in concealed sympathy, and just walked away. 

Sometimes he would take a stroll to Sherlock's grave, and stand there with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed, just waiting. _Maybe this time he'll reveal himself to me here,_ he would say, _maybe he's watching me, and rolling his eyes at me for even being here, and call me a fool for standing at an empty pit, mourning the air that was trapped under the dirt._ Other times, and he would be lying if he were to tell you it never happened, he would slump down before the grave and weep. Taking his head into his hands and, struggling to utter even the shallowest of breaths, letting out an anguished cry of remorse and unending grief. Because you much understand; although Sherlock was never his friend, and at times it was difficult to decipher if they were even on the same side, fighting the same battles, the man was never an adversary. He would never deny that the sharp gibes and spiteful talk that came from the detective's lips were not painless, and there were occasions where words would cut deeper than intended from both of them, but he never thought any less of him for it.

So when the day came of Sherlock's potent return, he was filled with an air of great personal repute.  Though nobody congratulated him upon his hard work, or his perseverance of something believed to be near impossible, he was humbled by it. He could feel the space around him slowly dissolve as people reappeared by his side, talked to him again, acknowledged his sanity as something to be recognised. Despite the expectations of many, he wasn't the first one to run to the detective, proclaiming his hypothesis or how everyone was wrong to admit to his death. Instead he stayed in the background, and allowed everyone else to submerge themselves in Sherlock's ressurection. 

As the days went on, he disposed of his maps, the scraps of paper he would scribble on during the middle of the night, the newspapers with headlines that made him second guess. Soon it was all gone, and he was just him again. Not investigator, not madman with a motive, just _him_. Still he never went to Sherlock, he remained the hidden bystander as the news spread throughout the city. And he was content with this, content with the status quo being restored to its natural, if not slightly unbalanced, definition.

Until Sherlock appeared one evening at the door.

He opened the door monotonously and let him in without a word, and Sherlock halted in the hallway, a little bent at the shoulders and leaner across the chest. There was a moment where they reamined there, just studying eachother to see if anything had changed, or if eveything they were picturing in their minds was still there. Sherlock cleared his throat to say the first word, but was given a brief shake of the head and was ushered into the lounge. Still they stayed silent as he was offered a sit that was quickly refused, until at last.

"I didn't think you'd come here." he said to Sherlock, "I didn't even think you knew where I lived now, but then again, you are _you_. " The air was think with a tedious awkwardness that niether could get passed. "So, do you want a drink or, or is John waiting outside? He could have come in too-"

"I came here alone." Sherlock replied.

He gave a taut nod, and took a moment to moisten his lips as the quiescence filled the room once more. "Look, if you need to be somewhere, don't let me keep you. I know you've probably got a millions things to, to do." 

"No, no it's.. fine. How have you been?" Sherlock's words felt thick and articifical, but he pushed forward. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock and folded his arms in resignation. 

"Whatever you're trying to do here, it's pointless. If it's some kind of act of sympathy to ease you somehow, then don't bother." 

Sherlock approached him before halting at a sensible distance. "No I," He stuttered a moment as he cleared his throat. "I've come here with nothing but civility. Since my death I had always pictured you to turn a blind eye, and I wouldn't be angered if it were true. I never held you in high esteem, or any for that matter." 

"Come on, this isn't-" 

Sherlock held his hand up, "No, please, let me finish. I have had time to contemplate my past actions and my reckless disregard towards your profession, and I hope we can start afresh with our relationship. I understand if you refuse."  

He continued to persist against the detective as he moved away from him, "You don't have to do this, okay? You're back, that's that. It was nice see-" 

"I know what you did." 

At the drop of Sherlock's last word he froze before reaching the hallway. Of course there was always the possibility that, while he was keeping tabs on Sherlock, Sherlock was doing the same for anyone who refused to let him die. Well maybe not  _anyone_ , but him. 

"I know about the maps, and the theories, and the newspapers." Sherlock frowned slightly, "I know about the grave too, and the solitude it's burdened you with."

He leant upon the doorframe and rubbed his forehead wearily. He didn't say anything, he couldn't say anything. After all this time he was no longer bold, or unyeilding about what he had done. He was ashamed. He could feel his lungs shriveling within his chest, and with every breath they shrunk futher, and further. "How long have you known?" he sighed.

Sherlock took a step towards him, "For the passed year. At first I thought it was John, but," he sighed also, "after time I knew he would have moved on, and he had. But you, you were the outsider. You thought differently from the others, and I knew that perhaps you understood me more. And you did."

He raised an eyebrow to Sherlock. "Is this your vaguely deductive way of telling me we're not so different?"  Sherlock hindered a smile and tightened the knot in his scarf.

"Of course not, we are no more alike than a scholar and, well, _me_." He was met with an eye-roll as he was ushered towards the front door.

"And there I was thinking you were actually going to see me as your equal." He scoffed, "I guess some things don't change, no matter how long you've been away." 

Sherlock pulled his coat collar closer to his neck as he stepped out into the street, "I do have a reputation to uphold, as do you." He retorted, and before he walked away, he turned back, rested a gentle hand upon his shoulder and whispered:

 "Thank you, Anderson." 


End file.
